


Serenity

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: AU, Cowboys and Spaceships, Fringe in Space, Multi, WIP Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Firefly/Fringe mash-up - don't ask where the writer's mind is at, it's a scary and unfathomable place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serenity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesliecrusher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesliecrusher/gifts).



He was a Sergeant in the war. 

Lincoln found his feet in Serenity valley and walked out of the desert lightened.  He was missing key pieces - half of his unit for one; reinforcements that never touched down.  He came out of the war with his brown coat in tatters.  Others lost arms or legs, some cradled gut-shot, gasping each breath, the dirt and tears mingled with blood that ran sluggish on the ground.  Lincoln lost his sense of belief.  Maybe even his honour.  But he left Serenity hollowed out and calm; all of his rage quelled by cold space. 

He buys a ship, names it after the biggest disaster of his adult life and declares himself Captain.  Lincoln runs the gauntlet on the Outer Rim, dodging Alliance vessels and never sailing near the black hole in Sector 38.  His eyes drift in that direction aimlessly.  His fingers tap the location on the charter maps; a pull of gravity felt through ten years and vast distances - a rollcall of destroyed worlds - missing now, his planet torn apart for scientific gain.  Lost, he likes it.  Lincoln intends to stay lost, too.  His crew comes and goes, never sticking around for long.  He takes on jobs that are legal; jobs that are less than legal.  And occasionally, Lincoln will take on jobs just to spite the Alliance.  Happy to be a gnat or a speck of dirt in their oiled rig. 

He’s happy to mess with the Alliance’s superior technology: their double standards and all-encompassing wealth. 

And so it is that Serenity gets itself into a bit of a bind, limps toward Persephone port to dump its cargo and lose it’s entire crew (in minutes, _literal minutes_ , as if someone hollered _abandon ship_ the second they touched down) - all except Astrid - who wears a gun low on her thigh and her beret tilted just so. She favours black t-shirts and classic design, pilots Serenity like it’s an extension of herself, calculates acceleration and sub-orbital approach with the ease of a child counting sheep. Astrid’s dark curls, bird-like bones (spacer bones – too long in zero-G – but she never tells him the story behind it and Lincoln’s mother raised him to respect another’s privacy). She maintains a no-nonsense approach to his oddities and absolutely will not sleep with him. “You’re not my type,” she declares, acidly.

“I’m everyone’s type.” He points at his hair, styled by sweat and his favourite cowboy hat. He smiles at her winningly. “Don’t you see the wonder of my ‘do?”

“You look like a porcupine. Also, we need a crew.”

“Nyen ching-duh, we need passengers," Lee corrects. “Paying customers at that, plus a smidgen of respectability wouldn’t go astray.”  

“We need an engineer, an overhaul of my baby’s innards and a compression coil for the steamer.” Astrid retaliates. “Plus, the next time we’re running away from the Alliance - ”

“We don’t run away.”

“The next time we’re advancing to the rear with alacrity, I’d prefer it if my baby didn’t buckle like a sardine can. She needs lovin’, Captain. Some slow, lingering caresses.”

They spend the hot day running over Serenity’s hull from top to bottom, washing out the internal transport compartments (the other _hidden_ transport compartments), and hunting a cough in starter engine two. Astrid fires the engine while Lincoln stands outside, one hand shading his eyes against the sun. He listens to the ship splutter. There are hens pecking at his feet, a low steady thrum of Mandarin and English rattling in his ears. The crowd presses and swells against him. Alliance soldiers maintain the perimeter of the port but the bazaar has spilled out of Persephone central and into the docking bays. Military teams sweep through the bustling activity, a ripple effect as the crowd parts, pushes into one another then rebounds.  Uneasily, he scratches the back of his neck, angles his face away from their scans.

“Wuh de tyen, ah.”  

Annoyed, Lincoln turns, one hand resting low on his thigh. There’s a man sitting cross-legged on top of a white box, as if someone had turned a fridge on its side and he’d decided it was the perfect viewing point. His clothing is upper market, clean boots and denim, a short black jacket that’s unzipped in the dusty heat. There’s something soft about his face, too many years of easy living, Lincoln decides snidely, and his accent points toward the core worlds, Alliance, the central planets. His eyes are the sharpest part of his features.

“Did you actually arrive in that thing?” He continues, as if Serenity being space-worthy is a miracle in itself, as if Lincoln has the time or inclination to respond.

“Yep.” Lincoln tilts his head to the left, trying to chase the niggling cough into something he can identify. “She might not seem much, but Serenity’s a thing of beauty out there.” There being space. On the ground, she’s a little misshapen.

“I’m sure she is. Right before the hull peels away and explosive decompression cramps your day.” The stranger hops off his overly long fridge and squints at the troops advancing through the crowd. One hand remains on the box, fingers splayed protectively. His voice is a slow drawl, one hundred per cent certain of himself. “Lucky for you, I’m a genius when it comes to anything mechanical.”

“Tyen tsai, huh?”  

“Peter Castle, and to me, it sounds like your engine has a flaw in the cooling relay. Fires in space rarely end well. Want me to take a look?”

Shrewdly, Lincoln looks him up and down. They would have been on opposite sides in the war, then again, Peter looks like the type who might have dodged the war altogether. “You have a flight engineer’s certificate to back up that claim?”

“Not on me, and not under the name Castle.”

Which is more of an admission than Lincoln was expecting. He blinks rapidly, surprised. Peter’s wound a little tighter, probably has to do with the proximity to the troopers. Lincoln might have missed out on the bright education, he might have grown up farming rather than studying but he’s good at noticing the tics in people. Peter’s face remains expressionless, his hand presses against the box. “What’s in it?”

“A whole lot of mind your own business. Look, I fix your engine and you bring my cargo onboard and out of the sun, quick as you can. If you’re happy with my work, I’ll trade repairs for passage.”

Lincoln can’t spot a weapon on him. There’s a part of him that wants to linger, see what would go down if the troopers scanned Peter for Identification. There’s a part of him that’s pissed at the sheer arrogance and there’s sport to be found in dislodging a person’s confidence. The problem with that scenario is the Troopers would scan Lincoln for _his_ identification, too, and it could get messy, fast. Names are fluid around here, forever changing, but ID scans bring everyone to light, and Lincoln spent long days in internment camps, waiting for processing after the war came to an end. He could do without the attention. “Come aboard.  If you fix the relay I’ll consider it, dong ma?”  

“Understood.”

Lincoln uses the anti-grav’s to haul the box inside Serenity, because it’s a heavy fucker and neither one of them want to do their back in. Peter stands just inside the ship, out of sight of the troopers and in clear view of Lincoln, watching him intently, and yeah, bartering trade skills aside, there’s not a lot of trust going on. “So for the cargo manifest, what do I note it as? Underwear? Explosive materials? One and the same?” Lincoln seals up the back and turns around, feet echoing in the caverns of the hull.

Peter double-checks the controls briskly, squatting beside the box before he stands up. “Put it down as a fridge full of beer.”

“I’m definitely breaking into it, now.”

“Good luck with that.” Peter says, unimpressed.

_Arrogance._

“I’ll take you to the engine room.”

“It’s a Firefly class 4, a mid-bulk transport with an enhanced graviton accelerator core and a 4 Blue Sun EVT29-400 pulse feedback generator. It has a crew capacity of eight, passenger capacity of thirty-six. Given how you’ve skeletoned the lower levels, I’d say you’re more into livestock than actual people.” Peter’s eyes cut toward the left wall; toward the hidden compartments. Lincoln feels himself bristle, hand inching toward his gun. “Maybe other stuff, too. Point is, I know my way around your boat. Engine room’s two levels down, third left, no need to escort me anywhere.”

“Oh, sure, I love to leave strangers wandering around my ship unattended!” Lincoln opens his mouth to holler only to have Astrid interrupt from above.

“Here.” Unnoticed by both men, she’s sitting on the upper catwalk, legs dangling off the edge and her arms folded on the railing, chin resting on top. “What’s this?”

“Crew.” Lincoln says shortly. “I want to drum up some passengers. Unlike Mr. Castle, I prefer people over livestock…in so many ways…take him below for me, xiao meimei?”

“It’s Astrid,” she corrects, and smiles at their guest. “You recite specs very prettily. I hope your repair work is just as good.”

Peter cranes his neck to look at her. “Let’s find out then.”

The second they’re out of sight, Lincoln’s all over that box like an Orison hooker.

He tries every code-breaking skill he has, punches in numbers and combinations, sticks his fingers into every gap and seam. The box hums merrily, refusing to open its secrets. “Sir?” Astrid says over the comms after some time, her voice diffident.

Irritated, Lincoln sits back on his heels, stumped, and slaps his palm against the stupid box with its stupid lock. “How is he?”

“Jen duh sh tyen tsai.”  

“Huh. That’s exactly what he said.”

“She’s humming, Captain. Serenity’s _humming_ ; it’s like music to my ears. I think we should keep this one. Can’t you hear Serenity telling you to keep him?”

Serenity’s whispering the two of them (potential three) will die of starvation mid journey if he doesn’t find paying customers. “What’s the ETA on repairs?”

“We could make space-fall by night.”

Lincoln rests his forehead against the box and says to no one in particular. “He really is in a hurry to leave.” The box is a bust. Astrid always had better luck at code breaking than Lincoln, had better luck at lock-picking too. “Alright, don’t let him out of your sight, and keep him away from the aft smuggling compartments. I’m gonna find us some passengers.”

There’s a pause before Astrid asks. “What were you doing for the last hour?”

Lincoln gives the box a sour look and opens the back of the ship to head out into the bazaar. “Tempting Pandora.”

Lincoln comes back with three people: a red-headed woman with a number of years behind her, hair striking and her eyes like diamonds; as with Peter, Nina speaks with the diction that indicates the Core worlds.  A civilian with a square jaw and piercing blue eyes named John Scott. And a dusty cowpoke, face weathered by too much sunshine.  Nick’s polite, keeps his eyes downcast, and has a scar bisecting the side of his forehead, shaped like a question mark or the number 2.  He’s armed and doesn’t bother to hide it, a lean shadow of a man.  Astrid and Peter re-emerge from the lower levels and Lincoln makes the introductions while everyone’s gathered together.  “Nina Sharp, John Scott, Nick Lane, I’d like you to meet my second in command, Astrid Farnsworth and our engineer, Peter Castle.”

Nick merely nods at everyone, Scott smiles, his teeth even and white.

“Pleased to meet you.”  Nina holds out her hand, voice strident.

There’s a brief hesitation before Peter accepts the grip, his smile lazy. “Likewise, Ms. Sharp.”   He’s ditched the inflection, no longer Alliance but pure Browncoat.  If Lincoln didn’t know better, he’d say Peter came from one of the fringe worlds, Bunos or Mei Shei.  “Your name seems familiar.”

“My company’s been in the newsreels once or twice.  And your Captain said a person of….reputation…wouldn’t go astray for your journey.”

Astrid catches Lincoln’s eyes, one eyebrow raised. 

Lee runs through the dos and don’ts before they take off.  No running with pistols, all weapons locked in a safety-box until land-fall, which levels of Serenity are available for use and which levels are strictly off limits, meal-times, and which bunkers are assigned to whom.   

The kitchen is communal, and everyone pitches in, passing plates back and forth when Serenity’s course has been locked and loaded in.

“I was twenty-one when I decided I didn’t want children,” Nina says evenly.  “Of course, at that age people look at you cock-eyed if you say such a thing – it’s easier to say ‘I don’t want children now, but it might change in the future.’  It stops wasteful arguments, at least.  But it didn’t change the fact that I had no intention of having children, or being married for that matter.  Early thirties and people ask more frequently, ‘when are you going to marry, nobody likes to be alone,’ they assume you’re lying with whatever answer you provide, and they’ll have the audacity to say your lying directly to your face.  By late thirties, everyone just assumes your gay.” Nina smiles mockingly.  “I wanted to run a company.  I wanted to live my life on my own terms, beholden to no one.  Some people are naturally suited to parenthood and some people aren’t.  Given the amount of child abuse, spousal abuse, divorce rates and societies expectations, the pressure to conform is the most damaging element out there.  A woman who decides she doesn’t want children shouldn’t be subject to debate, or pithy remarks of sympathy.  Maybe she should be congratulated for knowing her own mind.”

“And now?” Astrid asks.

“Now I’m sixty, no one gives a gos se.” Nina raises her wineglass.  “That’s not to say I wouldn’t have made an _excellent_ mother if I had wanted to, but I’ve built my empire, suitably, I think it’s time to see the Outer Rim.”

Peter is the first to leave, he goes downstairs to check the environmental’s on his cargo for a final time then retires to his quarters.  “Xiao meimei,” Lincoln says, as soon as everyone else has left the kitchen and it’s only him and his second, staring down at the cargo bay.  “I have a job for you.”

“It’s Astrid,” she corrects, stubbornly.

 

***

  

In the war, she was indispensible.  For Lincoln, the iconic image he carries of Astrid is that of a young woman, crouched in a four-foot trench with a long wave radio strapped to her back, a notebook balanced on her knees.  She intercepted messages and broke enemy codes, the earth shaking under her feet and her rifle clutched in one hand.  Or it’s the memory of them sitting together under the stars at Jekong way-station – the soft curve of Astrid’s smile as she tuned into a radio station – the scratchy recording of a Tennessee Waltz carrying in the wind.  War deprivation suited Astrid, made her smile turn fragile, like light reflected through a stain glass window, shimmering with all the warm colours of beauty.  Astrid’s trust was the only thing that kept Lincoln going through the rough patches.  Her belief he wouldn’t get her killed. 

Years away from the war, Astrid has a Sithrep lock-pick in one hand and her favourite ear buds in the other.  Lincoln motions toward the staircase with a flourish.  Astrid adjusts the earpiece with a frown and curls one hand around his bicep; she peers over the railing, head tilted to one side.  Lincoln follows her example, a slow sweep of the cargo bay from one end to another.  Serenity is never silent.  There are tics and warples, the occasional sigh; Lincoln can feel her metallic heartbeat, the vibration of the engines, a surrounding pressure from space causing stress fractures.  He’s about to open his mouth to speak when a shadow detaches itself from below.  Barefooted, shirt unbuttoned as if prepared to go to bed, Nick Lane is silent as he stalks toward the cargo.  He’s holding a knife in one hand, half the length of his own thigh, the blade serrated, jagged as a shark’s tooth.  The metal is dull grey, non-reflective.

Curious, Lincoln leans forward.  Nick ducks behind Peter’s box and drops out of view.  A minute passes, stretches into two, creeps toward three.  When he appears, Nick stands up like a freaking jack-in-a-box, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a whetting stone clutched in his other hand.  He’s turned 180 degrees.  He’s staring straight at Lincoln. 

Astrid waves dubiously.

“Keeping tabs on your passengers, Captain?”  His voice is soft.  There’s an ingrained habit of looking away when caught spying.  Lincoln meets Nick’s eyes and lets him look for as long as he wants.   He doesn’t flinch. It’s Lincoln’s boat: he doesn’t feel inclined to explain himself.  Nick’s mouth curves into a suggestion of a smile.  The knife in his right hand shifts, slightly upraised.  “’S’ Betty.”

“You named your whooping big broadsword?”

“Hunting knife, and Betty likes to be personified.”

“I feel I should warn you: Serenity doesn’t have a psychologist to treat space madness but if you should be afflicted with it, we do have a functioning airlock.”

Nick flips the whetting stone, his voice congenial.  “G’night all.  Ms Farnsworth.”

“You getting an impression from him?”

“Six pack,” Astrid demurs.  Lincoln looks at her sideways.  She shrugs unapologetically. 

He shakes his head and blows the air from between his teeth.  “Doesn’t compare to my two-pack.”

“Your two pack is an excellent pillow, sir, filled with marsh-mellowy softness.”

“Are you going to break into this box or not?”

She grins, and is about to move forward when Lincoln curls a hand around her forearm, halting her mid-step.  Downstairs, Nina Sharp emerges, movements sly as she slips toward the cargo bay. “For a group who retired exceptionally early, no one seems sleepy tonight,” Lincoln calls out. 

Nina recovers well, twisting around to stare up at them. “Captain Lee.  I trust you don’t mind, I forgot something from my bag.”

“No need to explain.  My momma told me not to pry into another person’s affairs.”  Beside him, Astrid visibly twitches, her hands tightening around the lock-pick.  “Can I help you with something, while we’re all up and about, that is?”  Lincoln smiles charmingly, one boot braced on the railing as he peers down.  Nina keeps walking.  She passes the box in the centre of the cargo bay, and diverts toward the side, where her smaller containers are located. 

“No.  I’ll get my belongings squared away soon, just need my medication for tonight.”

Lincoln hums in agreement.

"I'm starting to doubt the veracity of this so-called mother," Astrid whispers, mock-seriously.

The night, unsurprisingly, doesn’t settle.  Astrid has thirty minutes to examine the box interrupted before John Scott appears.  He takes the stairs to the kitchen and returns with a steaming cup of tea, hair standing on end.  “First night on a new ship,” he says roughly.  “I don’t think anyone is going to sleep well.  Too many strange noises.”  He pulls out a deck of cards, takes a seat on the third step, and proceeds to strip Lincoln of every penny he has. 

They talk about the war, the units they served in, the good times, and maybe that’s the hardest thing to explain to a civ but there _are_ good times.  They’re like Ellsworth Kelly paintings, bright splashes of vivid colour.  Lincoln’s never laughed as hard as he did when he served in the war; he’s never curled around another human being and have it _not_ mean anything other than comfort and protection.  He went in with ideals of freedom only to have them leak away, meaningless under a barrage of horror.  Until the only thing left was the person beside him; and in the end, the person beside him was the only thing worth protecting.  Some people talk that up; call Browncoats killers or heroes.  Personally, Lincoln thinks they missed the point. By two o’clock Astrid pushes away, yawning.  “ _I’m_ going to bed.  You two can play one upmanship until dawn.”  She’s annoyed, and not bothering to hide it.

John looks over searchingly.  “I’m not keeping you up, am I?  You don’t have to keep me company.”

There’s a box he’s dying to break into, a boatload of people who will not stay in their bunks, an Alliance engineer Lincoln doesn’t trust in the slightest and a sixth sense humming in the back of his mind; a feeling that warns something’s _off_ with the collection of people huddled on his boat.  John Scott seems halfway normal, his stories relatable.  He could call it quits for the night, leave Scott to his own devises and try to figure out what Peter’s hiding another day.  “No bother,” Lincoln decides slowly. They stare at one another for an uncomfortable beat then go back to playing faro. Intact, the box hums - a steady melody like a beehive - or the incoherent impression of a jumbled and confused mind.

Peter is the only one who never makes an appearance for the entire night. 

 

 

“Sleep well?”  There’s an edge to his voice, an unspoken acknowledgement that Peter knows _exactly_ what Lincoln was up to and just how successful it was.  Surly and half asleep, Lincoln drops his plate on the table and collapses into the seat opposite him.  The other man seems fresh, this side of amused.  “You look like you’ve been on a bender…  But I know that can’t possibly be true.” 

“Checked the ‘beer’ this morning, huh?” Lincoln growls without thinking.  “And if you're teasing me, then I have a gun.”

Peter studies him, long fingers curled around a coffee mug. He blows on the beverage, steam wisping into the air and lets his smile turn mean. “No running with pistols,” he recites solemnly, and hands Astrid a cup of coffee when she stumbles into the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Astrid whispers fervently.  

“I could borrow Nick’s knife.”

“Betty would gullet you like a fish if you looked at her twice,” Nick interrupts, not looking up from his porridge.  The whole table peers at Lane (standoffish, his posture screams) then inches away cautiously. 

Sullen, the table falls quiet. 

Peter washes his mug and plate out and jerks a thumb below.   “I thought I’d get a head-start, might be able to increase the efficiency on your burners, give you an extra burst of speed.  I’ll be out of your hair as soon as we make landfall.”

Surprised, Lincoln freezes with the spoon halfway to his mouth.  “You’re jumping ship?”

“Changing direction.”

“Headed where?”

“ _Else_ where.  Ship’s a little more crowded than I thought.”

“That’s a shame,” Nina exclaims from the doorway.  She steps into the room; dressed in red silk and a high collar, looking like class, and Peter automatically tenses.  “To be honest, I was relieved to discover a bona fide mechanic onboard.  Firefly’s are beautiful vessels but somewhat temperamental in design.”

Lincoln pushes his plate away with a clatter, the meal half finished and sitting heavy in his stomach. “There’s no guarantee another ship will pass in this sector for a while.  You could be dirt-side longer than anticipated.”  It’s a reasonable warning, Lincoln feels. 

Peter looks at him, his face going tight.

“Is the coffee strong?”  Nina enquires blandly.

Nick grunts without looking up.  “Shiong mao niao.”

Nina examines the cup in her hand then carefully replaces it on the bench.  “I always had a preference for tea.”

“You can’t leave Serenity yet,” Astrid protests.  “You just got here…and she likes you! Captain, tell him.”

Lincoln’s starting to feel like a pinball, bouncing from one conversation to another.  He’s not sure if it’s the lack of sleep or the fact he lost his engineer before a single week passed, but he’s not tracking on an even keel.  It’s not the first time Lincoln lost crew unexpectedly.  But having someone abandon ship within two days has to be a new kind of low. “Show me your repairs,” Lincoln decides, when Peter quirks an eyebrow, he shrugs.  The kitchen’s overly crowded, even without John taking up the last remaining seat, catching up on the sleep Lincoln sorely missed, and he's opting for privacy.  “You were trading skills for passage.  Let’s see if the repairs equal a fare to Mei Shing.” 

He hustles the other man out of the kitchen, their footsteps rattling on the metal as they double-time it down the staircase. 

The engine room is cramped, barely enough room for one person. Peter strips his jacket off, using the room like a personal jungle gym as he contorts or climbs to the various components.  He points out what he’s done and what he’s planning to do. Lincoln listens with half an ear and idly goes through the other man’s jacket.  The material is stiff under his fingers, heavy duty, it smells like engine room and hot sun, there are badges on the shoulder that have been torn off, the pockets run deep.  When Peter drops to the ground there’s grease on his singlet, dirt smudged across his cheekbone and his breath is warm as he snatches the ID from Lincoln’s fingertips.   The picture is sharp, the work good for all that Lincoln knows it’s a fake. 

“You’re better looking in real life.”  It’s not a come-on but true.  Lincoln’s handsome and he knows it in the way all good-looking people know it.  Peter’s blurry at the edges, imminently touchable, but whatever’s bright about him is contained under the skin, not captured by hologram or film.  The ID doesn’t do him justice.

“We can’t all be as photogenic as you.”

“And I welcome the admission.”  The room throws out heat like a furnace and Lincoln can’t quite hide the smile. “The repair work only gets you halfway to Mei Shing.  Looks like you need to stay around a little longer.”

“You didn’t listen to a word I said, did you?”

“I really didn’t.”  He’s curious, but Lincoln’s always been a curious boy, wandering out further and questioning everything his mother ever said.  But more than that he took on the mantle of Captain, and somehow the responsibility of the role sunk into his bones.  If he’s ferrying something that could get Astrid, or more importantly himself, killed, then Lincoln needs to know about it.  “In order, why don’t you explain to me what’s in the box?  Why Nina Sharp has you twitching like a livewire?  And seriously: is there something weird about Nick?  Are you getting an odd feeling from him?”

“Say I _am_ trying to avoid certain people - ”

“Oh, you’re running alright.”

“Is there anyone on this ship who _isn’t_?”

Astrid, Lincoln wants to say.  Astrid the mouse.  Astrid the loyal.  Braver than anyone else he’s ever met, who stayed with Lincoln when his planet was gone and he didn’t have a home, or anchor, to his name. 

“I was born on the core worlds.  If you perceive what I’m carrying as a threat, it makes you twice as likely to ditch us into the Alliance’s lap.  Let them police their own, right?”  There’s anger there, and a suspicion that feels right at home to Lincoln, a mirror darkly of his own misgivings.

“Us?”

“You don’t have a good concept of privacy, do you?”

“My momma always said  - ”

“Sir!”  Astrid says, her voice reverberating through the comm. system.  “Serenity just let out a distress beacon!”

There’s a second when they both look pole-axed, then Lincoln’s slapping a hand against the comm. panel and Peter’s shouting over his shoulder.  “Any ship’s in the region?”

“An Alliance frigate, course bearing 212.679, five parsecs off our bow.  They’re pinging an enquiry.”

“Ta ma de,” Lincoln curses.  “Smother the beacon!”

“Sounds like a nifty suggestion, sir.”  Astrid’s teeth seem to be gritted.  He doesn’t catch the second half of her sentence but assumes he’s better off not knowing. 

**Author's Note:**

> There was a request for Fringe to be based in space - my knowledge of Star Trek comes from 2009 film - so Firefly it was. Translation for those who are interested:
> 
> Nyen ching-duh - (young one)  
> Wuh de tyen - (Dear god in heaven)  
> Tyen tsai - (Genius)  
> Dong ma - (understand)  
> Xiao meimei - (little sister)  
> Jen duh sh tyen tsai - (an absolute genius)  
> Gos se - (crap)


End file.
